


Secrets

by gravewalke_r



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergent, Comfort/Angst, F/F, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:11:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravewalke_r/pseuds/gravewalke_r
Summary: Sharing secrets with the Nightingale might not be a good idea after all, but the Inquisitor has never been the kind of person that has good ideas.





	1. I.

Leliana is full of secrets -- it’s part of her job as spymaster, he supposes. She knows everything about everyone, only because she has to. He  **admires** her, that’s true. Somewhere down the road, they’ve come to a mutual agreement of not talking about themselves, about their own secrets and memories they keep locked away. It’s not weird to find himself being drawn to her as the Inquisition keeps fighting Corypheus and his seemingly never-ending forces-- she  _ is _ a good friend, if one could reach her underneath the Nightingale’s mask.

That’s why he wonders if she’d accept to listen to his secrets for once. If opening up too much too soon would end up ruining something he never believed he could get -- the people in his inner circle are his friends, even if they disagree here and there and Vivienne and Sera still can’t be in the same room together for more than five minutes, but whatever he has with Leliana is just  **different** .

It’s not about  _ romance _ , really. She has her reasons to stay away from love ( _ “the world just became dull after her death” _ , she had confessed once, and he decided to never ask again) and Dorian is someone special to him and his mended heart. Whatever their relationship can be defined as at this point, it’s never been about romance and  **never** will be. Their friendship isn’t just  _ comforting _ , it’s almost a beacon of light he’d cling to whenever he was lost in the dark.

(And it seems he gets lost more often than before nowadays, but that’s another secret he keeps deep inside.)

She laughs freely at something stupid he says, and he can’t help but smile at a side of her most people would never see. Tonight isn’t a good night to bring dark subjects into conversation. A gloved hand slips into his and the mage smiles, pulls her hand close to press a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Moments like these are rare nowadays--locked in one of the countless towers of Skyhold, hidden away from prying eyes and sharp ears, worrying about nothing regarding the Inquisition or Corypheus.

“The Chantry still debates about their decision on the next Divine,” Leliana says, and Maxwell takes another sip on his wine. He’s almost sure Cole slipped some honey into the bottle, but the thought is easily forgotten. “The Inquisition’s opinion on the matter won’t be taken lightly.”

“Well, now that you mentioned…” The mage smiles secretively, nursing his chalice. His tone is anything but serious, but he still tries-- he doesn’t know why, but maybe it amuses her. “I’ve heard some scandalous rumors about a message to the Capital saying that the Inquisition declares full support to Sister Leliana as their chosen one. Outrageous.”

“Indeed. The grand clerics might be crying themselves to sleep as we speak, for sure.” The spymaster replies easily, amusement hidden under the most serious face she could manage in that moment-- but then the mask cracks and she just laughs again, patting his hand. “Jokes aside, I appreciate your trust.”

Their eyes meet and they smile at each other before a comforting silence falls over the room, conversation ignored as they drink together, watching the sky and its endless stars. It’d be a good time to open up and he knows that--but he doesn’t trust himself to say the right thing, he doesn’t believe he has the right to force yet another burden on her shoulders when she always deals with too much all the time.

The mark on his hand cracks and pain flares up through his arm and up his shoulder, treacherous and overwhelming as it’s always been. Leliana’s gaze falls on the green light until it disappears, yet the feeling remains--echoes of wild, untamed magic forcing its way through his body mercilessly. It doesn’t last long, just like always, but it’s enough to leave him shaken to the core.

She doesn’t comment on it, she doesn’t ask.  
(She’ll have a word with Solas later, because  _ of course _ she will.)

When she holds his hand again, her touch on his scarred skin is gentle, feather-like even as if she could cause him more pain than the mark itself--and he appreciates her delicacy, how much she cares. The Inquisitor smiles once more, pushes the pain away and pretends nothing has happened because they still have to find and fight Corypheus and he can’t--he  _ won’t _ die before the self proclaimed god is gone.

“Talk to me.” Leliana demands, and her eyes are fierce and almost dangerous--but her voice betrays her, and she knows that. He holds back a soft chuckle and her grip on his fingers falter for only a moment. “Not as the Inquisitor.”

The mage knows what she means by that, and the idea is as  _ terrifying _ as it’s comforting. And he wants to talk to her-- but the hesitation always speaks louder than his needs, always did and always will. And truth to be told, he’d rather face Corypheus alone and weaponless a thousand times than lose her friendship over a selfish matter. But he knows, deep down, that she won’t leave him alone until she knows what she wants to know.

“I will.” He finally says, offers her a reassuring smile before pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. It’s late and tomorrow will be a busy day, like all of their days are in Skyhold, and they both should get some rest. He won’t sleep tonight, but it doesn’t mean he should keep her awake either. “But not tonight. May I walk you to your quarters, Sister Leliana?”

“I’d appreciate the company, Inquisitor.”

(She’s smiling when she takes his hand to stand up-- he’s so, so dead.)


	2. II.

“You promised me a conversation, Inquisitor.”

Leliana is full of secrets and plans, and he knows that very well. She doesn’t talk about herself or her past, but he’s learned her ways of speaking and moving. It’s not easy to read her sometimes, but he still tries over and over again. It’s no more than a blessed distraction from too many reports and death counts showing up in his desk every and each morning, from the chaos spreading rampant throughout Thedas. And he knows that Leliana getting out of her way to talk in such a private place as his own quarters meant she wouldn’t tell--but she wouldn’t leave until she got all the answers she wanted.

That fact alone is more terrifying than face an entire horde of demons and darkspawn.

In a way, he’s never believed she’d truly forget about that excuse of a promise made between too empty wine bottles, under hushed whispers, but he had secretly  _ wished _ she’d let go of the conversation after a few days of silence from his part. Now, with the spymaster standing too close to his desk and smiling too sweetly, he wonders why he’s ever decided to get too close to anyone, why he’s decided to befriend those in his inner circle when he knows he’s  **dying** .

Not that it really matters  _ now _ . What’s done is done and he can’t just go back on his actions--as much as he wishes he could, sometimes. The Inquisitor finally stands up and moves towards the balcony, reports about the Exalted Plains all but forgotten. He could deal with those later, and he knows Cullen is too busy training more volunteers and refugees that arrived at Skyhold to care about more paperwork. Leliana follows him in silence, and they stand there for some time as he gathers enough courage to talk.

The cold air of the mountains is refreshing, and after a moment a gloved hand covers his marked one in a gentle, soothing gesture. The Anchor is quiet and the pain had faded completely-- but it'd come back, as always.

“How bad is it, really?”

And he  _ wants _ to talk. Maker, he wants to. The words burn on his tongue and he almost chokes on his own cowardice, wonders why he’s allowed himself to show her a moment of weakness. She’s done it before, of course-- but this is  _ different _ . He’s not afraid of dying, he’s not afraid of what’s going to happen when he faces Corypheus. He’d sacrifice himself in order to save everyone else without hesitation, without a second thought.

(He knows the tales about the Hero of Ferelden’s sacrifice, he knows about the countless lives lost in battles against Corypheus’ forces. Why should he offer  _ any less _ ?)

But he doesn’t want to go through that path alone.  
He knows he  **won’t** be alone, no matter what.

The great people in his inner circle, the ones he calls ‘friends’, they all pledged their lives to the Inquisition, to the Inquisitor and it should help, it  _ should _ be enough, but his mind simply refuses to follow logic. He knows a confession like that won’t be enough to make them grow distant-- oh he knows Cassandra will literally fight him for his doubts, he knows Cole won’t leave him alone for at least weeks (if he’s lucky, that is).

Maybe all he needs is to talk to someone to ease all the overwhelming doubts pilling up on his shoulders.

“Maxwell.” She insists, almost as if she can read his thoughts, and the Inquisitor sighs, blue eyes focused on the starred sky. She won’t give up, but as much as he wants to talk it just doesn’t feel right to force all this on the spymaster.

(Leliana has many secrets and deaths on her shoulders already, and he doesn’t want to add his own death to her burden.)

“I don’t think I’ll survive much longer after Corypheus.” He whispers, in false hopes she won’t listen--but she does, and for a moment he can feel her hand trembling against his. Yet she doesn’t ask, she doesn’t comment. Lady Nightingale is patient, and he appreciates it. “I never expected to live longer than him.”

He’s  _ always  _ known that.

From the very moment he woke up in chains in Haven, he’d known he wouldn’t outlive the ancient magister. The self-proclaimed god  _ would _ die, that’s for sure. Never once he’s allowed himself to doubt the Inquisition and its ever growing forces, never once he’s thought they wouldn’t stop the creature. His faith on his friends, on what they believe,  **never** faltered. Yet deep down, on those rare moments when he could lock himself away in the safety of his quarters, he couldn’t help but think about how he wouldn’t survive for too long after the final battle.

Despite Solas’ efforts and the Breach sealed off in the sky, the mark in his hand keep growing slowly each passing hour, at each closed rift they leave behind through Thedas.

“You have little faith on yourself, my friend.” Leliana says, voice as soft as his own. It’s a secret shared only between friends, one that’d never leave the sanctity of that room--and he appreciates that, he truly does. “You’ve survived too many ordeals now. Occasions that would require a  **miracle** to endure.”

Maxwell sighs, taking a moment to stare at the mark hidden under his dark glove. He knows what she’s trying to do, what she wants to achieve with her positive attitude--but the anchor was a different matter, too different from facing Corypheus and his dragon in Haven, different from surviving an entire mountain falling on his head. It should be terrifying, he  **knows** it should be--yet, more often than not, he finds himself welcoming the certain death that’d come sooner rather than later.

“This is different. Solas can do only as much to stop the mark from-- it doesn’t matter, really. I’m fine.” The Inquisitor smiles reassuringly, pulls her hand closer to press a gentle kiss to her knuckles in a silent, soothing promise--he’s making too many promises to her nowadays, but it’s been too long since he’s decided to worry about that. “I won’t die until Corypheus is gone.”

Leliana offers a shadow of smile, her touch on his hand becoming a little heavier, a little more intimate than the usual. He clings to the small beacon of silent comfort, allowing himself to lean against her body for nothing but a moment. Their friendship is weird, out of the usual and maybe, _ just maybe _ completely wrong because they shouldn’t get this close but he’d treasure it for as long as he could breath.

“I know you won’t.” The spymaster replies softly, almost as if she doesn’t believe her own words--but he doesn’t think about that, he doesn’t let himself feel any worse for putting so much more on her shoulders. “But you know you’re the life force of the Inquisition. People have stayed because of you, because of the way you lead them. It  _ won’t _ survive without you.”

The Inquisitor sighs once more, trying not to think about that particular grim subject just yet. People need the Inquisition and they’ll need after Corypheus is gone--the chaos the creature had spread throughout Thedas wouldn’t disappear once he was dead, and Maxwell knows it. But what is he supposed to do? He couldn’t pretend he’d survive, yet he couldn’t ignore the problem either.

“I don’t want the Inquisition to disband once I’m gone, Leliana. I know it can’t last forever, but… For as long as people need it, it  _ should _ live on. With or without me.”

“It’s an admirable sentiment, but it doesn’t solve the problem.” Leliana replies, a half amused smile dancing on her lips-- a more than obvious signal she’s planning something he knows he won’t enjoy. “Cassandra could help. If you explain--”

“And risk being beaten to death or worse?” There’s a fake horror in his tone, but they both laugh after a moment. The excuse of a joke is enough to dissipate the heavy air hovering over their heads and he bumps against her arm as gently and friendly as possible. “I think I’ll leave that to you. You can always talk to her-- after my death, of course.”

“Inquisitor, how dare you.” She mocks, a hand resting on her chest to add more drama to the casual banter. “Lady Cassandra is a hurricane. She’ll have  _ my _ head on a spike if I dare to propose such an outrageous idea. I’d rather face Corypheus on my own, thank you.”

“You and me both, Sister.” Maxwell replies easily and they laugh once more, freely and relaxed for the first time they’ve decided to discuss that. And for the first time in a long time, he could feel a weight being lifted from his shoulders, leaving nothing but a comfortable numbness--and the regret about ever telling Leliana finally disappears. He kisses her hand one last time. “Thank you, my friend.”

“We’re here for you, Max. We all are.”

And for the first time since he woke up in Haven, he _believes_ that.

(Her smile is full of secrets, but he knows there’s no need to fear it tonight.)


	3. III.

The whispers from the Well sound louder than the usual today, but it’s not such a big surprise after everything that’s happened that afternoon. Yet he doesn’t push them away as usual--instead he drowns into the voices, allows the almost comforting whispers to claim all his attention. For the first time since they returned from the Arbor Wilds, he  **clings** to the ancient words, trying to make some sense of what they truly mean--he can’t understand the dead language, the long-forgotten rituals that once meant something to a people that no longer existed, but the bittersweet feelings the voices carry are almost as overwhelming as his own pain.

It’s a good distraction from Dorian’s  _ accusations _ still echoing in his head over and over again.

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, really. Dorian’s made his decision a long time ago, long before they ever got involved so much and so deeply, and Maxwell  _ knows _ he shouldn’t have expected anything different than what he got--being a distraction from the end of the world, nothing more than a fling before the final battle. He understands it, even if some love to claim he doesn’t.

He knows Dorian is a good man, one that loves his homeland too much, just enough not to have room for anything or anyone else in his heart. He’s trying to make things  **better** . He’s trying to help many people, and it’s way more than anyone else had done before, and the Inquisitor understands that. 

He just wishes that conversation could’ve ended in a very different way than it did. 

But maybe it’s been for the best, if Maxwell cared enough. It’s been better than ending their relationship because he was dying, better than have Dorian changing his mind only to stay by his side for the  **wrong** reasons. Not that he’d ever tell his former lover about the mark, of course. It’d be selfish, stupid. That’s a secret Leliana would take to the grave, one he’s decided not to talk about ever again.

The mark is quiet, spreading slower than ever now that he’s safe behind Skyhold’s walls, hidden away in his quarters. It won’t be long before Corypheus makes his final move against the Inquisition--and he should be ready for that, they all should.

The self-proclaimed god surely would be ready for them.

There’s a pile of scrawled papers over his desk when he finally snaps out of his stupor, pages upon pages of runes which true meaning has been lost to ages, prayers to gods that are either dead or forgotten. Sometimes he wishes he could comprehend elven to be able to read those pages and so many others he’s written down days ago--and he knows he could always ask Solas to translate them, even if the mage was still angry about his decision of drinking from the Well, but whatever was written in those pages just felt  _ too personal _ to share.

He’s shared a lot of secrets with Leliana and Solas over the weeks.  
He can afford be a little selfish this time.

He hides the pages in the middle of a book no one would ever pick up to read and decides to finally push the whispers away, to focus on the real problems the Inquisition is going to face sooner or later (and it’s always sooner, no matter how much he prays). Working is as much a needed distraction as the voices, and he  **does have** a lot of reports waiting for his approval on the desk. Cullen would kill him if he didn’t send those back this week.

Well, not  _ Cullen _ himself, but the commander surely would send Cassandra  to do the job.

Maxwell has a report of the Dales in his hand when Leliana barges in, storm clashing in her eyes, and for once he’s not sure if he should be happy or scared of her presence here. The spymaster is  **bristling** under her breath, moving too quickly on her feet when she approaches, and he can feel her never-ending energy bouncing around her thin frame. It’s the first time in a long time since he’s seen her so angry, in a loss of words-- and she knows, _ of course _ she knows. 

“I’m fine.” He states bluntly, before her silence can stretch for yet another long minute, and she just sighs, wriggling her hands in that way he knows so well by now. “What’s done is done. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“Did he really think you and I…” The spymaster finally finds her voice, and it’s shaken with something he can’t nor won’t identify now. He understands her worry, but he doesn’t care as much as he should in the moment.

“It’s what  _ everyone _ in Skyhold thinks by now.” Maxwell replies easily It’s a gossip they never tried to silence, not really, and Dorian has always been smart enough not to believe. “Varric asked me the other day when I’d take you in ‘a proper date’. He says you spend too much time in your tower that your secrets may have secrets by now.”

Leliana doesn’t smile as he’s expected, arms crossed in a way that screams she’s not leaving before her anger is subdued. Not that he’s complaining, but curiosity makes him wonder why she’s decided to talk it off on him, of all people living in Skyhold. wonder Maybe because no one else would understand as much as he could. “I’m serious.”

“So am I. And Varric is right, you know.” The Inquisitor tries to joke once more, but she just narrows her eyes. Andraste help him, this is going to be a very long week. “ _ Relax _ . Dorian knows it was just servants gossip, or else we’d never have started a relationship. Our fight was about something else. I must’ve voiced my thoughts about him in the wrong way or… whatever happened.”

“I’m sorry, Max.” Leliana replies, and the anger is suddenly gone from her voice, replaced by a strange feeling he couldn’t name.

He knows she’s lost people before, too. She’s lost people she loved, adored, lived for. They’re too much alike sometimes. They have too many secrets, too many old scars and pains that’ll never heal, even if Cole tries to help, even if said pains are forgotten, nothing but rotten memories. They both have lost more than enough through the years, they’ve sacrificed  **so much** \--and he can’t help but wonder if their sacrifices will  _ ever _ be enough for someone that wasn’t watching over them anymore.

(Because he  **knows** Corypheus wasn’t lying about an empty Golden Throne amidst the Black City.) 

“It’s fine.” Maxwell says softly, and for once he means it. Not that she notices, too busy pulling his hand between hers in a comforting gesture he’ll never get tired of. It feels good to know someone still cares about him, despite everything. “Not the first time I get rejected, after all.”

“It sounds like a story I’d like to hear, if you have time to spare.”

“For you? Always.”

They share old secrets during the whole night, just because it feels the right thing to do.

**Author's Note:**

> it's been ages since i wrote a proper fanfic but i just finished da:i again and the idea get stuck in my head for days now, so just bear with me. i hope y'all like it and i promise larger chapters are coming! thank you for reading and i hope you have a wonderful day/night! c:


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